


this was unintentional

by iisrafel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, Derek is a Good Person, F/M, Happy Ending, Human Derek Hale, M/M, New York City, Self-Destruction, Stiles is a Little Shit, Stiles owns a flower shop, derek is a cop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:16:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2033331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iisrafel/pseuds/iisrafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek comes back from his lunch break, there’s a donut on his desk.</p><p>It’s one of those cream filled ones with a little icing flower doodled on the top. He’s seen these before - Scott usually brings in a box when he’s working desk. But Scott is out doing a security job for the mayor right now and Derek knows for a fact that Kira (who owns the bakery where Scott gets all of his confections and with whom Scott is completely smitten) is swamped making a wedding cake because Scott wouldn’t shut up about it yesterday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this was unintentional

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any typos and factual errors - I am a lazy editor and know nothing about how the NYPD works.

When Derek comes back from his lunch break, there’s a donut on his desk.

It’s one of those cream filled ones with a little icing flower doodled on the top. He’s seen these before - Scott usually brings in a box when he’s working desk. But Scott is out doing a security job for the mayor right now and Derek knows for a fact that Kira (who owns the bakery where Scott gets all of his confections and with whom Scott is completely smitten) is swamped making a wedding cake because Scott wouldn’t shut up about it yesterday.

There is a new face sitting in front of the desk across from Derek’s. It’s Parrish’ desk, to be exact, but Parrish isn’t there and whoever is waiting for him is drumming impatiently on the chair’s arm. Derek may or may not be a little distracted by this person because he is beautiful in every sense of the word - sharp angles, delicate curves, long fingers, freckles acting like a map.

When Parrish finally walks back in from his lunch break, the pretty stranger’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas and Derek cringes because, Christ, he is just a kid look at how young he is _Derek you are such a bad person to even think_ -

“I brought you a desert!” says the kid, holding up another flower-adorned donut.

Oh, that’s where it came from.

Parrish takes one look at the pastry before plucking it out of the kid’s hands and dropping it in the trash.

The kid squawks. “Hey! You big meanie!”

“I will not perpetrate your donut-eating-cop stereotype, Stiles,” grumbles Parrish. “Not ever.”

The kid, now named Stiles - Derek files that away to be used at a later date - huffs, leaning back in the chair and stretching. His shirt pulls lewdly up, baring his hip and stomach to the world ( _Oh, no,_ thinks Derek.) “But it’s a tasty donut. Kira made them this morning.”

Parrish doesn’t grace Stiles with a reply, just sits calmly at his desk and starts on his paper work.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

No, Derek has not been watching the entire with hawk like precision, he hasn’t. Of course, it’s right as Derek’s about to go back to work when Stiles looks right at him.

Stiles’s eyes are clear and sharp enough to slice him in half. At least that’s what it feels like. This kid should be a criminal interviewer. Or a psychologist. Derek doubts anyone could lie to him.

Stiles grins at him, pushing up from his chair in front of Parrish’ desk to take one that sits in front of Derek’s. “You’re new,” he says as he strolls across the aisle, all gangly limbs and animal grace.

Maybe Derek’s brain short circuits for a second before he says, “Transferred from homicide.”

Stiles makes a face. “That Lieutenant’s a bitch.”

“Yes,” Derek agrees before he can wonder how Stiles would know that and how he’d even realize that Derek is a new face to the station.

“Did you like your donut?”

“Yes,” Derek is stuck on repeat.

“It’s good to know that some people appreciate fine confections!” Stiles says a bit loudly. Parrish flicks him off, grin threatening to push through. “I’m Stiles,” Stiles says holding his hand out across Derek’s desk.

Derek takes it maybe a little too quickly. “Derek,” he says. “Hale. Derek Hale.”

Stiles laughs. “Nice to meet you, Deputy Hale.”

Derek frowns at him. “Detective. NYPD doesn’t -”

Stiles waves him off. “Deputy sounds better. I call my dad the Sheriff even though he’s the Chief, so whatever.”

“Dad?” Derek asks dumbly.

“Yeah,” Stiles doesn’t notice. He’s about to keep talking but Derek stops him.

“Your father is the Police Chief of New York City?”

Stiles looks at him with those stupid eyes and a stupid smile on his face. “Yeah,” he draws out. “Why? Does it change something?”

Derek blushes. “No.”

That is, of course, _of course_ , when Chief Stilinski walks back in from his own lunch break. Nothing prepares Derek for the tender face that overtakes his no-nonsense boss when he catches sight of his son.

“Stiles!” he booms, smile on his face and in his voice. “Shouldn’t you be at your shop?”

Stiles, still grinning, shrugs. “Nah. I gave myself the day off.”

Chief Stilinski sighs like Stiles gives himself a day off more often than not before he hauls the kid up by his armpits and starts to drag him to the door. “Say goodbye. You’ve got a business to run.”

Stiles laughs heartily and it makes Derek’s stomach twist. “Bye! Keep New York safe!” He mock salutes the room and then turns to Derek and winks. Chief Stilinski is about to close the door on him when he mouths something that looks a lot like ‘see you tomorrow’.

Derek has a very bad feeling about all of this.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles saunters up to the station door at twelve on the dot, just as Derek is about to order from the food truck that perpetually sits in the parking lot and gives the South Mann Precinct Cops blood clots on a daily basis.

“Hale!” Stiles says loudly as he jerks Derek’s elbow and pivots him away from the food truck window. “What a surprise!”

Derek pitifully looks back to the food truck but it’s too late. Stiles is pulling him further out into the parking lot.

“I was getting my lunch,” he tells Stiles.

Stiles snorts. “Still are.”

“But I-” Stiles stops them short, turning to face Derek with a pointed finger and a determined face. “Fast, quick, and cheap is fine,” he says. His face is really close. Derek is having trouble not dropping his gaze down to Stiles’s lips. “But sometimes you need quality.”

Derek frowns. “My break is only thirty minutes. I don't have time for quality.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You do. Come on.”

Derek tries not to think about double meanings.

The (beautiful) man (who is his _boss’ son_ ) drags Derek down 51st Street.

They pass a bagel shop that’s bustling and Derek’s stomach growls like a dragon. It makes Stiles laugh, and Stiles’ laugh lights up his whole face. He becomes a shining beacon on the corner of 51st and 3rd and Derek feels a bit shell shocked standing next to him. Passers by double take the two of them. They must be quite a sight. Cop and hobo.

“That’s Ess-A Bagels,” Stiles says pointing to the shop. “Best bagels in town. And lots of toppings.”

Derek doesn’t bother mentioning he’s lived in New York most of his life. The line extends out the door a couple feet.

“What time’s your shift start?”

“Seven.”

Stiles hums. “That’d be good breakfast for you, then, yeah?”

Derek squints at the kid, confused. “Yeah?”

But Stiles doesn’t bother explaining himself, and instead pulls Derek across the street and down to a worn out looking diner.

“Welcome to Pops!” Stiles exclaims, grandly, throwing his arms up and grinning. “Hope you like burgers.”

Derek loves burgers. He orders the Greenacre burger, named after the park in the block, and moans after the first bite. It’s probably the best burger he’s ever had.

He looks up to Stiles (who has ordered nothing but a chocolate milkshake and some fries, the child) to tell him this, but Stiles’s looking at him like he’s been shot in the gut.

“What?” Derek asks, through a mouthful of bread. (Pop’s burger buns, are apparently house made and also delicious.)

Stiles’s entire being (at least what Derek can see of it) goes pink. “I think you missed your calling,” he says, dipping a fry into his shake. He then pulls the fry across his tongue before he eats it. Derek feels something hot twist tightly beneath his stomach.

“What do you mean?”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “That was porn worthy, not gonna lie.”

Derek feels a bit faint. “What.”

“I mean,” Stiles waves his hand flippantly. “If I was, ya know,” he makes a lewd gesture with his hand, “and I heard that, I’d probably be done there, like, wow, dude.”

It takes Derek a few minutes before he manages to eat more of his ridiculously good burger, mostly because Stiles is watching every. move. he. makes. and only a little because they’ve just talked about porn like they didn’t first and briefly meet yesterday.

On the walk back to the station, Stiles prattles on about his flower shop.

(“A flower shop?”

“Yeah, you’d be surprised how New Yorkers like freshness in their life. I’ve done stuff for weddings to business meetings to eight year old's birthday parties.”)

It’s strange how easy it is to just be with Stiles. It’s not awkward and it’s not forced. His company is something that just fits with Derek, for whatever reason. It’s pleasant. Derek wouldn’t mind more of it.

When they get to the station, Stiles walks him all the way to his desk. “See?” he says, as Derek sits. “Quality lunch in a thirty minute break is possible. See ya!”

Stiles salutes him, like yesterday, and strolls across the room to his father’s office.

Scott leans over his desk to poke Derek with his pen. “Did you just go on a date with Chief’s son?”

Derek frowns at him. “I’m not sure.”

 

* * *

 

 

Three months later finds Derek being stared at by Scott for most of the morning. Derek is a bit weirded out by it. Sometimes Scott just does this and sometimes there’s a reason and it’s very hard to differentiate between the two.

At twelve on the dot, as usual, Stiles flings open the door to their division and smiles brightly.

If Derek smiles back, he doesn’t admit it.

“Burger time!” Stiles calls from across the room. He’ll eventually make it to Derek’s desk after he greets everyone. Derek will take the few extra minutes to continue working.

Scott leans across his desk. “You goin’ to lunch with him again?”

“Yeah,” Derek says without thinking. “Fridays are for Pops. Why?”

They’ve set up an easy pattern for lunch meetings. It’s kind of odd, because it’s the only time they actually interact, but Derek has come to enjoy the calm thirty-minute break from the hustle and bustle of New York crime.

“But you went with him Wednesday.”

“No,” Derek shakes his head, shoving papers into a folder. “There was a robbery in East Midtown, and last Friday I was patrol.”

Scott makes the face he always makes when he thinks too hard. “You’re not going with him today.”

Derek frowns at Scott. “Uh, why?”

“Because you’re coming with me and Kira today.”

“I don’t remember agreeing-”

Scott huffs. “You didn’t. But it’s happening. Kira’s made you a lunch and everything.”

“Why?” Derek thinks he might be stuck on repeat again. But Scott is standing now, starting to walk away.

“Just tell Stiles you’re busy and then come out to my car, okay? I’ll drag you out if I have to.” And then he’s gone, slipping out the door and down the hall.

“You okay?” Stiles asks with a smile on his voice as he sits in front of Derek’s desk. “You look a bit confused.”

Derek leans back in his chair. “Scott- I. I can’t go to lunch today?”

Stiles’s eyebrows knit together. “Are you telling me or asking me?”

“Telling.” Derek tells himself later that the way Stiles’s face falls to disappointment doesn’t twist his stomach into knots.

“Why not?” Stiles frowns. “You’re stuck at desk. You need a break.”

“I’m busy,” Derek tries. But he’s filed all his paperwork away and his desk is bare.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says pushing up from his chair. “See you later.”

Derek winces when the Chief’s door slams shut.

Kira is in Scott’s car when Derek finally comes down. She smiles at him, kisses his cheek in greeting and then suddenly, she’s as serious as Derek has ever seen her.

“We need to talk,” she says with a hand on his shoulder. Scott pulls out of the parking lot.

“Where are we going?”

“Central.”

Kira pulls Derek’s attention back to her. “What are your intentions towards Stiles?”

Derek jerks away from her hand. His face feels hot. “What?”

Kira makes a clucking noise and her frown deepens. “Are you friend-zoning my friend or not?”

“The friend-zone is a made up concept,” Derek growls. He is a police officer. Why is everyone interested in his love life? (His landlady, Ms. Ranaldi, asked him about Stiles this morning. Apparently she gets her flowers from the kid. “Best flowers in all the whole city!’ she had said dreamily, ‘Couldn’t keep quiet about you, though. I may have told him where you live.’) He does not need this right now.“Why does it even matter-”

Kira throws her hands up. “You two have been dancing around each other since you first met. I’ve never seen Stiles so hell bent on wooing somebody before!”

Derek chokes. “W-wooing?”

Kira rolls her eyes. Derek can see why she and Stiles are so close.

“Why do you think he takes you to lunch all the time?”

“It’s nothing but lunch,” Derek argues. He doesn’t bother saying that pursuing a relationship with his boss’ son is probably not a good idea.

Scott, to his best effort, is trying not to laugh. Derek punches his arm. Kira sighs.

“Just... don’t hurt him, okay?”

“I’d be more worried about Stiles hurting him,” Scott finally puts in his two cents. “You get, like one hundred percent less grumpy after you eat lunch with him.”

Derek glares at both of them. “Is there a point to this?”

“Just be aware,” Kira’s smile is small. “He likes you a lot.”

Derek is more than aware. He is hyper-aware. It’s all he can think about the next time he and Stiles have lunch. All he can think about is what it might mean when Stiles looks at him a bit too long, or when their hands brush together when they’re walking side by side, or when Stiles flirts shamelessly.

Yeah, this is a very bad idea.

 

* * *

 

 

At the precinct’s Christmas party (graciously hosted by Parrish) Scott and Kira get caught underneath the mistletoe and Stiles has to hold onto Derek’s arm to keep from falling over; he’s laughing like it’s the best thing to happen since the beginning of time.

Scott turns as red as a tomato and Kira just looks amused.

Nothing really happens until Parrish says, gruffly: “Be a man, son.”

And that’s enough to get Scott into action.

Later, Stiles pours too much eggnog into Derek’s cup.

After that a department store robbery steals away half of the group. (The NYPD had already set out designated cops for the night.)

It’s almost midnight, December 23, when Stiles plops down on the couch almost on top of Derek.

“I love Christmas,” he slurs, leaning his head on the back of the couch, precariously balancing another too full cup of eggnog on his thigh.

Derek ignores his bared throat and the way he can see the tendons of Stiles’s neck stretching. “Never really celebrated Christmas before.”

Stiles turns his face to the cop so quickly it looks like he’s possessed and gapes at him. “What? You’re lying.”

“My dad left near Christmas,” Derek finds himself saying. He doesn’t feel like saying that left is synonymous for died at the hands of mob bullet. Doesn’t care to mention that his sister left the same way, too. His hand almost finds its way to Stiles’s knee, but Derek gains control of it before it’s too late. Why he’d try to comfort himself that way is a mystery to him. “So mom didn’t usually feel like celebrating.”

Stiles looks like he’s in pain. Looks like he wants to reach out. Touch his face or his arm or something. It’s uncomfortable. “I’m so sorry,” he says in loo of moving. Usually when someone says something like that, Derek can hear the pity in their voice and it makes him angry, but Stiles’s words are full of simple understanding.

Derek runs a hand across his face. “S’okay,” he says. “I like this,” he waves out at the remnants of the party. “This is nice.”

Stiles smiles - golden and bright. It’s blinding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

 

Derek wakes up around eleven for his shift at the station. He’ll work Christmas Eve and then get Christmas Day off. He doesn’t really mind. He even asked Chief if he could work on Christmas, open up a slot so some else could spend time with a family they actually have.

But Chief Stilinski had been adamant. “Everyone needs a break at some point, son.”

Stiles is late for lunch. When he finally walks into the station with a large takeout bag in his arms, it’s three o’clock and he looks tired and flustered, like he’s been running around all day.

“You okay?” Derek asks, taking most of the egg rolls as Stiles steals most of the rice.

Stiles smiles at him. “Yeah, I’m fine, just busy.”

“Last minute Christmas things?”

“Yeah. Some big shindig at MoA tonight. They want twelve arrangements for their banquet hall.”

“Only twelve?” Stiles nods. “Yeah, that’s what I said until they told me how big they’re gonna be. I have eight now. I got a late start this morning. Had more important things to do.”

“More important than work?” Derek raises his eyebrows.

Stiles has the graces to look a little sheepish. “More important than work,” he echoes.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek is woken at eight the next morning, Christmas day, to a constant banging on his apartment door.

He groans as he stands because his bed is soft and warm and there’s ice on his window and someone is asking him to open his door. The door swings open to reveal Stiles, all bundled up for the cold weather with a shit-ton of bags. Derek glares at the kid for a second before he realizes exactly how cold it must be outside for the hallway to be freezing and that he doesn’t have a shirt on.

Derek scrambles away from the door and hears Stiles laughing as he pushes through the entrance, dropping all his stuff near couch.

There’s a discarded Henley lying crumpled on the floor of his bedroom, so Derek pulls in on quickly. When he comes back to the main room of his apartment, Stiles has already cleared off the coffee table and put up a small tree.

“Uh,” says Derek, intelligently. “What?”

Stiles looks up at him grinning. “Awe,” he says, face one of mock disappointment. “You just had to cover up the view, didn’t you?”

Derek can feel himself blushing. It’s the worst feeling ever. “What are you doing?” he growls at Stiles. It’s too early for this.

“Celebrating Christmas.” Stiles pulls out a tree skirt and lays it out like he’s an expert. “It’s kind of what you do on Christmas, right?”

“Your father-”

“Always takes the Christmas shift,” Stiles shrugs, tossing Derek a wad of lights. “Plug these in and string ‘em up, yeah?”

“Scott-” “Is busy with Kira and her family.”

Derek crosses his arms. “What about the rest of your family? Mother? Siblings?”

Stiles shrugs again. “Don't have any. Just me and dad.” He tosses Derek another wad, this time of garland. Derek barely catches it. “Now quit being an ass and decorate.”

Derek grumbles and complies, but not until after he’s made them both a cup of coffee.

Stiles smiles graciously when Derek sets the steaming cup next to the half decorated tree. Stiles has crammed so much on the thing already it’s a wonder it hasn’t fallen over.

“This garland is real,” Derek says, catching the clean smell of pine and cedar as he drapes it over the windowsill. He’s already strung the lights around the fake fireplace that houses his TV (which, because Stiles is probably the biggest loser Derek has ever met, is on a some fireplace station). “It’s the same stuff that’s up in the precinct.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says lugging another bag from the doorway to the coffee table. “I made it. It gets popular around Christmas, but I make garlands for all the seasons.”

“I like it.”

Stiles cracks a grin at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles’s face twists into something Derek can’t place. He’s made this face a few times before. “That’s good,” he says. “I’m glad you like it.”

They don't move for a solid minute, and just kind of stare at each other. “Uh,” Derek coughs when it gets to be too much. “What’s in that bag?”

Stiles smiles brightly. “Presents!” he says heaving the bag up on the couch and opening it with a flourish.

“Presents.”

Stiles nods. “Mmhmm. For you.”

“Me.”

Stiles makes an aborted motion with his hands. “Yeah, nerd. It’s Christmas.”

Derek feels his stomach sinking. “All of those are…?” He vaguely waves a hand at himself.

“Well,” Stiles starts, cheeks turning pink. “Most of them yeah? But a few are for your neighbors?”

“Neighbors?”

“Yeah. Cookie tins. Well, macaroons, really. Kira makes the best Christmas macaroons of anyone I know so I bought some for you to give to your neighbors because whoo, Christmas spirit and all that...” Stiles fizzles out of his ramblings rather quickly.

Derek stalks over to the bag. “You got this yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yeah?” Stiles squeaks.

Derek frowns. “I cannot believe you wasted your money on me, Stiles. What wer-”

“I didn’t waste it!” Stiles bites back. “Jesus, you’re such a prude. God forbid. You can be happy when somebody does something for you, ya know. That is a thing.” He digs around in the bag for a second before shoving three cookie tins into Derek’s hands. “Here. Give these to your neighbors. Now.”

And before Derek can blink, he’s pushed out into the cold hallway of his apartment building, bare feet and all.

Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds accept the first tin with small gracious smiles.

Bobby, the son of Martha, the single mother to his right, lights up like he’s been set on fire, and Martha herself looks the same.

Mr. Clark takes one look at Derek and the last cookie tin and slams the door in his face, so Derek shrugs and returns to his own door to find it locked.

“I swear to God, Stiles,” he says resting his forehead over the peephole.

“Are all the cookies gone?” Stiles yells through the door.

Derek glares. “No,” he admits, grudgingly.

“Well, get rid of it then.”

Derek rolls his eyes and thumps down the stairs to Ms. Ranaldi, his landlady. When she sees the cookie tin she smiles. “Oh, I love that bakery. You’re too kind, dear,” she says, clutching at the tin like it’s gold. “How’s Christmas for you so far? I had to let your guest in. He didn’t know the code.”

“I didn’t know he was coming,” Derek tells her. “I never know what he’s going to do.”

Ms. Ranaldi smiles knowingly. “He’s pretty,” she says. “Good heart, too.”

Derek agrees before he realizes it.

 

 

Derek’s gifts are mostly Henleys and socks and one package of coal, which is fine and good and wonderful, because he needs them, except the coal. But then Stiles pulls out another wrapped package and Derek opens it to find a small box with a triskelion carved in it’s top. He’s pretty sure his heart stops. “Stiles,” he says, not even daring to pick it up out of the package. “I-”

“I saw you looking at the one in my dad’s in his office,” Stiles says smiling like he’s been all morning. “Never seen anybody want to touch something so bad.”

“This is-”

“A very nice gift,” Stiles interrupts, mocking him. “You shouldn’t have. You’re such a idiot.”

“You are a idiot.” Derek runs his hand along the box’s top. He isn’t sure Stiles even knows what it mean, to his family and in general.“My dad, he...”

Stiles leans back on the couch. “He liked spirals?”

Derek shakes his head, pauses for a minute before leveling Stiles with a serious look. “I don’t have anything for you.”

Stiles shrugs, standing up. “It’s okay. More coffee?”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” Stiles laughs. He kicks Derek’s knee. “It is, trust me.”

“I wish I had something for you,” Derek says, probably a bit more sincerely and raw than he meant to.

Stiles rolls his eyes, snagging Derek’s empty cup. When he goes to pass Derek’s chair, though, he stops, swoops down and presses a quick kiss to Derek’s temple. “Your sweet company is gift enough, nerd,” he says as he strolls to the kitchen.

And Derek isn’t quite sure what to make of it all.

 

* * *

 

 

The call comes in on a Tuesday night. Civil disturbance, nothing too big, not even armed.

So, no one expects it to end with gunfire, but the young man, kid really, with pain in his voice and tears on his face holds a shaky gun to whoever tries to get close.

It’s a trap. Gang initiation, they find out later. Kill a cop; join the family.

“Just put the gun down, son,” Chief Stilinski says. “Everything is going to be all right.”

And Chief’s voice is just so fatherly and caring that the kid actually lowers his weapon, so Derek thinks, maybe this will be it. He manages to take two steps forward while the kid is distracted before something hard hits his shoulder and his brain registers pain and then there’s a lot of shouting.

Something else hits him in the chest. It sends him to his knees.

 _Oh_ , he thinks as gunfire rings through the air. _I’ve been shot_.

 

* * *

 

 

Kira is with him when he wakes up confused and disoriented in a pale hospital room. “Welcome back,” she smiles sadly.

“What happened?” his voice barely makes its way out of his throat. It catches and pulls like barbs. His chest is sore.

Kira shrugs. “You got shot.”

“Anyone else?” Her jaw clenches. “The kid.”

Derek feels his heart drop in his chest. “What was his name?”

Kira rolls her eyes.

Derek frowns.

When did she become so cold? “Does it matter?” she asks. It sounds like her voice is welling in her throat. Like she’s trying not to cry. “He doesn’t need to be rememb-”

“Kira!” Derek wants to sit up, but his chest is so heavy. “He was just-”

“He shot you!” she exclaims. “He killed Stiles’s dad! He is a murderer; you don't need to know his name!”

Derek blinks. “What?”

“You heard me.” Derek reaches a hand up to his IV. “Where is he? I need to-”

But Kira’s hands are on his chest, pushing him back down to the bed. “Well, you can’t right now, so.”

“Where is he?” Derek growls.

Kira glares right back at him. “His apartment. And you’re in ICU, so there’s not much you can do.” Her hands are trembling on his chest. She looks so scared.

“How are you?” he asks.

She sniffs, face crumbling. “I thought you were gonna die. The bullet was so close to your heart.”

Derek wraps an arm around her waist, which is rather difficult to do without hurting something, and pulls her onto the bed with him. “It missed. I’m okay.”

She curls into him, huffing out a wet laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Derek wakes up, Kira is gone, but Stiles is sitting on the hospital chair in the corner of the room. He’s asleep, actually, curled up in the chair, and it looks uncomfortable. His neck will probably hurt later.

Derek’s chest doesn’t feel quite so heavy now, but his shoulder is stiff. Everything still hurts. A nurse comes in and puts something in his IV.

“For the pain,” she says. When she’s gone, he looks back to Stiles.

He almost wants to wake him up, but it looks like the kid hasn’t slept in days.

Derek’s not entirely sure how long it’s been since the shooting. His eyes start to get heavy again and he’s drifting off to sleep when Stiles’s head lifts suddenly.

“Derek?” he says, voice full of sleep.

But Derek is sinking into sleep himself.

 

* * *

 

 

The third time he wakes up, Stiles has pulled the chair over to his bed, resting on it with his head pillowed on his arms. Derek’s arm is pinned underneath Stiles.

“Hey,” he says, wiggling his arm. Pin pricks wave up from his fingers. “Stiles, wake up.”

Stiles sits up sharply, eyes wide and red. Before Derek can even think to say something else, Stiles’ arms wrap around his neck and he’s in the tightest (and most painful) hug he’s ever been in before.

Stiles’ stupid hoodie is suffocating Derek and he’s putting a lot of unwanted pressure on Derek’s shoulder and chest, but he doesn’t really care because now Stiles is here with him.

“Take off your shoes,” he hears himself say. He feels Stiles shifting, hears rubber hitting linoleum tile. Derek fits his fingers into Stiles’ belt loops and pulls him fully on the bed. Their legs tangle together through the sheet.

“What am I gonna do?” Stiles presses his face into Derek’s neck. “What am I gonna do without him?"

“You’re not alone, Stiles.” Derek says. “You’ve got Kira and Scott. The whole station, even. You’ve got me.”

“I’ve got you,” Stiles says, bitterly. “You got shot.”

Derek holds him closer. “You’ve still got me.”

 

* * *

 

 

A month after the Timber Wolves gang shooting, Derek is back in the precinct.

The new chief is kind and good, but it still feels strange with Stilinski being gone. It’s the biggest case of the year and Derek can’t be on the task because of conflicting interests.

Stiles being one, and his life before the police force being another.

He doesn’t think Scott will ever look at him the same. He had looked so betrayed when Derek confessed to being part of the Timber Wolves gang when he was younger. When he was fifteen and stupid.

Derek is stuck on desk duty until his doctor and psych eval clear him for manual labor. His days are long and tedious. He feels inadequate when calls come in and all he can do is nothing but sit. Nothing but answer the phone. Nothing but paperwork. S

tiles doesn’t come for lunch with him anymore.

Whatever had been happening between the two of them came to a screeching halt when Derek’s past was broadcasted in the New York Times:

 _Ex-Timber Wolves Cop Under Investigation After Deadly Shooting_.

Derek doesn’t really blame him, but he’s still worried. Scott, by way of Kira, tells him that Stiles is fine. That his shop still does business. That she sees him enough to know that he’s not happy, but not verging suicidal either.

Which, really, that only makes Derek worry more.

So he packs up for home after a day at the desk and makes a pit stop at Stiles’ apartment.

Stiles answers the door shirtless, pants hanging low on his hips and smoke curling out of his mouth. The room behind him is dark and dingy. Bottles glint from the coffee table.

“Detective Hale,” Stiles says, leaning against the doorframe, lips twisting lewdly around the words. He’s drunk, Derek realizes.

“Stiles,” Derek says, because he can’t think of much else to say. He’s also just realized that the purple-yellow bruises that litter Stiles’s shoulder and arm and everywhere are decidedly mouth shaped.

“S’been a while, huh,” Stiles looks down at the floor, then back up at him. He takes a drag from his cigarette.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Only when I drink.” Stiles laughs. “Been doin’ a lot of that lately.”

Derek frowns. This visit isn’t going how he thought it would. “That’s not-”

“Stiles?” calls someone from inside the apartment. A few seconds later reveals a man in a similar state of undress to Stiles. He’s taller, though. Broader.

“Hi,” he says politely to Derek, while rudely sliding his hand along Stiles’s side.

“Hello,” Derek says, barely managing to keep the anger from his voice. He has no right to be angry or jealous. None at all.

“This is Danny,” Stiles says as the tips of Danny’s fingers slip into his pants. Stiles smiles. Derek clenches his jaw.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he tells Stiles, forcing himself to look away from the offending hand.

Stiles shrugs. “Oh, I’m okay,” he says pushing away from the doorframe and pressing into Danny’s chest.Danny takes the opportunity to mouth along Stiles’s neck. “Fantastic, even.”

“Great,” Derek says tersely. “I’ll get out of your way then.”

He turns, stalks away. Ignores the sounds against the door after it closes.

 

* * *

 

 

For some reason, Derek finds himself at a club on his next night off. Lord, knows why.

It’s loud and packed and smells like sex but he needs a distraction and the liquor is strong.

A woman pulls him out to the dance floor and she grinds against him. She pouts full red lips when he doesn’t seem interested enough and wanders away, which leaves him in the middle of a packed dance floor with people eyeing him hungrily. He’s not too worried, though, he’s a cop, after all.

Two hands snake around his waist and some presses too close to his back and he jerks their wrists, pulls them in front of him.

It’s Stiles.

Of course it is.

He’s glaring at the kid before he realizes it. Stiles licks his lips, throws his arms around Derek’s shoulders and pulls him far closer than he needs to be. Closer than he’s been since the hospital.

“Danny,” Derek says, but his voice cracks. When did his hands get on Stiles’s back?

Stiles rolls his eyes, still moving to the music. “Is a whore.”

“That’s illegal.”

“So?”

“I’m a cop.”

“Not a literal whore, just a fuck buddy.” Stiles laughs, loud and sharp. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re not?”

Stiles’s grin is shark-like, but there’s no glint in his eyes. “Not tonight, Hale.”

Derek’s stomach sinks. He feels like he’s about to make a very bad decision. And then Stiles is kissing him violently. His hands are roaming under Derek’s shirt. They aren’t dancing anymore, but they’re definitely moving to a beat.

The corner of the bar hits Derek in the back and the stool that he would have landed on clatters to the floor. Someone’s drink joins it.

Stiles pushes his hand down Derek’s--

“No,” Derek grabs Stiles’s wrist, uses his other hand to push him an arm’s length away. “Let’s not.” His breath is coming heavy and hard, he can’t find the right words in his head. “Not here,” he says instead of ‘not ever’.

Stiles’s eyes are dark. He pushes his shoulder against Derek’s hand until his elbow gives.

Derek tries to ignore the way Stiles fits so perfectly against him. Stiles kisses him more gently this time, along his jaw, across his neck, slowly easing him back into willingness.

“Come on,” he says sweetly with hot breath. “Why not here?”

 

* * *

 

 

Derek does not pass his psych eval the next day.

Derek is pretty sure Stiles hates him and everything he stands for, but for some reason, whenever the kid is in trouble, he calls. Derek always answers.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek’s phone vibrates loudly against his nightstand at three in the morning and pulls him violently from his sleep like he’s been lassoed around his neck and yanked from his horse.

(Derek lives vicariously through his western fantasy dreams; he’s never denied being a nerd.)

It takes him a few tries to answer. He can’t see the screen clearly through tired eyes and his fingers don’t want to work too well. His voice doesn’t seem to want to work either because when he tries to say ‘hello’ because that’s what you do when you answer the phone, he ends up just making this tired groaning noise as he falls back onto his pillow.

“I am drunk,” says the voice in the phone, and they must be because their words are slurred, coming through the line in broken lurches.

Derek blinks. “Stiles?” Stiles sighs and something scraps across the speaker. “Yep.” He pops the ‘p’. “It’s me,” he sings. “I don’t know why the fuck I called you but I did, so, yeah, there’s that.” He sighs again but at the end of it, his breath catches. “Fuck,” he breathes.

Derek sits up, suddenly wide-awake. There’s a kind of horror knotting in his stomach. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says too quickly. “Don't worry about it.”

“I swear to god, Stiles-”

“I’m not!” Stiles shouts through the line. If Derek didn’t know better, he’d think the kid was embarrassed. “I’m drunk but I’m not that drunk.”

“And I’m a cop,” Derek says. Stiles laughs something small and breathy.

“Off duty though,” he says, and then he falls silent.

Derek almost falls asleep with the line still running, but then Stiles’ cursing again and there’s a vehemence in it that seems unnatural before Derek hears the sudden sob that tears through his phone’s speaker.

“Stiles?” Derek cautions. “Where are you?”

“Cemetery,” is the mumbled reply. Derek feels his stomach twist. It’s only been three months since the accident.

“Are you alone?”

“Nah,” Stiles says, voice suspiciously easy. “My trusted and only friend Smirnoff Ice is here with me.”

“You’re gonna stay there, alright?” Derek hears himself say. His body is up and pulling on clothes before his brain has time to catch up. “And I’m gonna come get you and take you home, okay? Just don't move.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “Yeah, alright.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles must take the ‘don't move’ command seriously, because he’s hunched in front of his father’s headstone with his rather large bottle of cheap vodka clutched in his hand when Derek finds him. It’s halfway gone.

Because Derek is the kind soul his mother raised him to be, he brings flowers, and when Stiles sees them in his hands as he’s walking up he makes this startled choking noise in the back of his throat before he mouths off:

“Where the fuck did you get flowers at three in the morning, you big fucking nerd?”

Derek rolls his eyes. It’s the nicest Stiles has been to him since their go in the club. “You like that word when you’re drunk.”

“I like it all the fuckin’ time.” Stiles’ coping mechanism, Derek decides, must be sarcasm.

Derek awkwardly lowers the bouquet to the ground in front of the headstone like an apology before he hooks his arms around Stiles and pulls him to his feet. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

Stiles nods.

It’s not until they’re safely in Stiles’ apartment that Derek manages to wrangle the bottle from Stiles’ grasp. But when he does, Stiles smiles sadly as he falls on the couch and kicks his feet up on the coffee table where three empty bottles of Everclear are resting.

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek says, face pulling into something concerned. “You’re gonna kill yourself.”

Stiles doesn’t look at him, just shrugs as he sinks deeper into the couch.

Derek runs a hand across his face and through his hair before he gives into himself and pushes Stiles over so he can sit on the couch, too. He makes sure he sits close, that his and Stiles’ thighs are pressed into a line and that their shoulders crowd against each other. He knows that physical contact can help sometimes with these sort of things. He’s a cop, and it’s his job to take care of people.

It doesn’t take long after that for Stiles to start shaking, face twisting up and tears falling free.

“I just miss him,” Stiles manages to force out, between sobs and shuddering breaths. He scrubs viciously at his face. “I miss him so much.”

Derek wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, rubs his hand along his back and the kid curls up into his chest, his nose pressing against Derek’s neck.

The cop can feel hot tears soaking into his shirt. Stiles’ hand is clenching and twisting into his jacket like it’s a life-line.

They both fall asleep after an hour.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek wakes up with a stiff back and a sore neck and a plate of scrambled eggs sitting on the coffee table in front of him. The bottles are gone and in their places are two cups of orange juice, one half drained and a PlayStation controller.

He’s about to stand up when Stiles walks into the room, wearing a familiar looking loose flannel hanging off his shoulders and too-big sweat pants.

“Is that mine?” Derek asks dumbly.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, like it’s no big deal. “Eat your breakfast.”

He falls next to Derek on the couch, too close for it to mean nothing and starts to play Assassin’s Creed.

“Where did you get my shirt?”

Stiles snorts. “Last time I drunk dialed you. I threw up on you in the stairwell. I was gonna give it back. But then I...” he shrugs.

“But instead you start to wear it.”

“It’s comfortable,” Stiles defends.

Derek glares. “You’re making a habit of drunk dialing me.”

It’s the twelfth time in two months.

Stiles cuts him a look out of the corners of his eyes. “You’re comfortable,” he says, but he doesn’t say anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

They ease back into whatever it was they were doing before. Lunch dates and donut offerings. Movies with Scott and Kira.

It takes a while for Stiles to get all the anger out of his system – for a few weeks he keeps calling Derek when he’s too drunk to walk, but it changes when he invites himself over to Derek’s apartment one day and just doesn’t leave.

Stiles is right, they are comfortable.

Derek thinks that, despite everything, it’s the easiest relationship he’s ever been in.

A year later, on the anniversary of the shooting, Derek stands with Stiles beside the late Chief’s grave and when Stiles is finished, Derek decides its time Stiles meets his family.

“This is Stiles,” Derek tells the lot of black marble headstones halfway across the cemetery. Stiles tightens his grip on Derek’s arm. He shows Stiles everyone.

His mother, his father, Laura, Cora, Peter, Aunt Maria, Uncle Steven and their children Ava and Andrew.

Stiles greets all of them.

“I didn’t want to be part of the Timber Wolves,” he tells Stiles. “But it was family business – it was who I was. When they died… I…”

Stiles lets loose a shaky breath. “You’re a cop now,” as if that explains away everything.

Derek shrugs. “Off duty.”

Stiles grins.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek wakes up to eyes blinded by sunlight because of course Stiles forgot to shut the curtain before he got in the bed. The window itself is open, too, though, and the breeze, chilled and crisp from the city outside, flows easily across the room, so it could be less forgetfulness and more that Stiles is an asshole.

Stiles, the shit, is nowhere to be seen. There’s not even noise coming from somewhere else in the apartment. Not TV. No kitchen things rattling around.

It’s just Derek and his heartbeat and his breath and the sounds of early morning New York City.

It’s nice, compared to the usual.

His shift at the station doesn’t start until two and it’s only ten now, so he takes his own sweet thirty minutes to stretch out across the mattress and actually wake up. He even gets out of the bed (it’s quite a struggle though; the bed is warm and soft and perfect) and starts his grudging march to bedroom door so he can start his day when said door flings open and reveals Stiles, precariously dressed for an early March day in briefs and an oversized NYPD shirt.

Derek frowns at it. Stiles could have gotten it from his father, which is awkward because of reasons, or he could have stolen it from Derek, which is not uncommon, but slightly embarrassing since it is one of the only two things he seems to be wearing.

“Hello,” says Stiles brightly, because he is one of those people that like to get up at the asscrack of dawn. “I had to go give Ms. Ranaldi some flowers for her tea party today.”

He’s standing in front of the door. Derek can’t start his day.

“In that?” the cop gestures down to Stiles’s attire and the imp grins.

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re going to get arrested for public indecency one day, you do realize.” Derek is trying really hard to not look at the way the light from the window is hitting Stiles from collar bone (gloriously visible and frighteningly tempting) to calf (also frighteningly tempting to a sleep addled brain for whatever reason).

Stiles laughs. “She only lives on the first floor, besides, people only get arrested for that if they’re not pleasant.”

“Pleasant,” Derek echoes lamely, because he’s just realized that Stiles is slowly backing him deeper into the room, towards his bed again, which is opposite of where-

Stiles hums like he’s agreeing. “In vision and in manner.”

The backs of Derek’s knees hit the edge of the bed, but he keeps them locked and does not fall. “I have to go to work,” he says.

Stiles (finally) actively pushes Derek down on the bed, climbing on top of him (the devil spawn) and running his hands up Derek’s chest. Derek tries his damnedest to not drag his own hands up Stiles’s bare legs, but it is a very difficult task and Derek has never been one with a strong resolve.

“In two hours,” Stiles says against his mouth. “Two hours is a long time.”

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours is not, apparently, a long time, and finds Derek desperately pulling on his uniform because his shift starts in fifteen minutes.

“I hate you,” he tells Stiles, who is tucking Derek’s shirt into the front of his pants as Derek checks his holster and belt. Stiles’s hands do not need to go, to go, t-to g-g-go- “ _Stop that._ ”

Stiles laughs like he’s been doing all morning when Derek gets particularly frustrated. “You love me,” he says, grabbing Derek’s newly put on belt to pull him closer and press their hips together.

Derek hisses. “I have togettowork, Stiles.” He turns towards the door (he did, in fact, finally make it out of the bedroom, only to have Stiles pin him on the couch for thirty minutes. That was the first time he’d put on his uniform.) and has every intention of walking through it and leaving when Stiles pulls him back again and kisses him stupid.

Derek breaks for a second, and pulls Stiles as close as he can, one hand slipping up the curve of his back, the other sliding down to - no. W O R K.

Stiles laughs against his mouth. “You’re going to be late,” he says.

“I know,” Derek growls.

Stiles, thank god, lets him go and starts to push him to the door.

“Can’t be late now, Deputy Hale, can we?” Stiles grins. Derek shakes his head as he pulls open the door, checking his pockets to make sure he has everything and then turning back to Stiles to kiss him goodbye because that’s what he always does and it’s a habit now, but considering previous event’s it’s a rather bad idea.

Stiles’ hands fly to Derek’s neck, which locks him in place, not that the late-for-work-cop is going to try to get away now.

Derek licks into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles makes this breathy gasp that sounds a lot like ‘late’ and shoves Derek bodily out the door.

Derek catches it on his shoe before Stiles can close it completely and kisses him again through the crack the door and doorjamb make. “I love you,” he mumbles through the crack.

Stiles laughs. “You’re such a nerd.”

Ms. Ranaldi winks at Derek as he passes her open apartment door and hands him a little bag of tea cookies.

He makes it to work only twenty minutes late, which earns him a glare from Chief Argent, but Scott is forty five minutes late, has a welt on the side of his neck, and is walking a little bonelessly, so Derek gets off the hook.

There’s a donut with an icing flower sitting on his desk. He can’t stop the grin.

**Author's Note:**

> This is in New York because it was originally the misadventure of two original characters between me and my friend. Kira is overtly close with Derek because literally all I did was change the names and a few character descriptions (which is why the characters are a little off). I am only slightly ashamed. 
> 
> (Originally, the character's names were Rowan and Isra, and the gang was called Ironfell. It's like a reverse 50 shades)


End file.
